24

Jun. ’11

Scratch and Sniff This

I would pay money to have my sense of smell eradicated.  I don’t care anymore about the beauteous aromas of warm chocolate chip cookies, lilacs, a freshly bathed baby, or my all time favourite: a lumber yard.   I am tired of malodorous scents wafting through my house and then becoming permanently embedded up my nostrils so that I become immune.  And blind and deaf.  But not so deaf I didn`t overhear two ladies talking, 4 aisles away at Loblaws.

Lady #1:  The woman across the street got arrested for having too many cats.  Some of them were dead!  Her house reeked!  And she had chin hairs!

Lady #2: She must have been an animal hoarder!  That’s so sad. 

Lady #1: I could see that happening to Kristin.  That dog of hers pisses on the carpets and she doesn’t notice all the fecal nuggets imbedded in that shag rug in-lay.  Although she herself is impeccably groomed. I’ve heard she’s had Botox, a Juvederm injection, and a series of photo facials.  She looks fabulous!

Lady #2:  And laser hair removal on those chin hairs!   Imagine never having to pluck them out!  But I can’t stand that dog!  Is it Betty?  It ate an entire chevre log from the coffee table.  Thank GAWD she’s not in our book club anymore!  Although she did make a mean Negroni cocktail!

Okay, I’m making this up.  But it could be true.  Betty has lived and peed and barfed and pooped on the carpet in my living room for 6 years and I have developed selective smelling.  Some areas are more pungent and damp than others.  I move around them, hopping over furniture, avoiding the living room altogether.  I know what you’re thinking:  GET YOUR DOG TRAINED but we’ve been over this a few posts ago:  We are a family of bad doggie behaviour enablers and rather than get us trained, I’ve made a decision to get rid of all the carpets and slap on some hardwood, literally and figuratively, as a part of Project Mojo Rising.  This time-flying business is ridiculous and blows you downhill pretty darn quick.  So if you don’t grab on something and forget to put lipstick on one day, you will be on The Humane Society Public Enemy List.  So yeah, home improvements this month, stay tuned for more details. 

In the meantime, I am taking care of my nephew’s dog, Riley (that white long piece of business whose butt Betty is sniffing in the photo above) for the “weekend.”  In nephew lingo, weekends start on Wednesday and end some time on Monday (‘not sure when I get up” he said).   Riley, unlike Betty, controls his bladder and sphincter in the house.  He doesn’t chew things or bark or rearrange the furniture.  He doesn’t jump on you or eat off your plate when you’re not looking.  He is mild-mannered and mellow.  If I were to have a man in my life, he would be much like Riley.  In fact, Riley has taken over the bed much to Betty’s outrage, and she has been sleeping by the door.  When Riley went to sleep last night, he had me pinned in one spot with his long snozzly snout propped on my inner thigh.  I couldn’t move without him freaking out so I just lay there, praying he change spots so I could do my usual “thrash 3 times and settle” manoevre.  But no, he stayed still.  He snored, he farted, he whimpered in his dreams.  Only when the claps of thunder hit at dawn, he tried to bury himself under my head.  Betty stoically stayed away the entire night, not a peep or a poop out of her.  And I did miss her in the bed, her tiny little paws smell like corn chips.  Sweetness.

Posted by . Categories: Hanging Around, This Charming Man, Uncategorized. 1 Comment

17

Jun. ’11

Boston Bruins 4-Evah!

When I was in Grade Two at Mountainview Primary School in Otterburn Park, Quebec, I began my lifelong mission as one of those annoying contrarians that you run into every so often when making small talk.  It’s sunny out and you say, “Oh what a beautiful day” and I say, “I hate the sun, I can see all the dirt in my house. I only like it when it rains.”  Lady Gaga comes on the radio and you say, “Oh I love Lady Gaga, she is so innovative, everything she does is magical genius,” and I will respond, “She is a twat.”  When really, obviously I love the sun when I sprawl out on Hanlan’s Point with nothing but a bucket and a blanket and of course I appreciate Lady Gaga’s theatrics, particularly the one where she claims to be 24 when obviously she is 45.  Good times!

So when every little kid in that tiny Quebec town was cheering for The Habs, I did not.  From my brother’s hockey card collection, I discovered a Boston Bruins player named Phil Esposito and I was in love at first sight.  Don’t ask me why, in retropect, I don’t get it either.  Back then I thought he was the hottest thing since Dick Van Dyke (again, not sure what was going on in that tiny mind).  I remember the classroom was set up with four desks pushed together, bistro-style and I was the only girl in mine.  I made an announcement to the quadrant that I was a Bruins fan and they are the best team and Phil Esposito is best hockey player in the world.  The three boys scoffed and told me I was a “dumb girl.”  One of the boys lunged over the desks and grabbed my arm and gave me an “Indian sunburn,” that’s what we called it, don’t get on my case.  He kept squeezing my wrist one way and the fat bit below the elbow the other way so hard that snot bubbles popped out of his nose.  But I let him do it and sat there stoically, I didn’t wince or cry.  That is where I learned to stand by my principals and not to let some stupid little dude tell me who or what to like.

It is also where I learned that hockey is a passionate sport, and picking your team isn’t always the most rational choice.  So this particular Stanley Cup was more exciting for me than any other because normally don’t care so much.  I watched all 7 games and tweeted on my Twitter because that is what you do these days when the tv is on.  Last night during Game 7, I twattered out something quite rude about the Canucks that I thought for sure I would lose some followers.  One tweeter was pissed and chirped my head off but by then I had fallen asleep and when I woke up to the news, I was elated:  Bruins won 4-0!  The city of Vancouver was in a riotous uproar!  Rage was in the air!  Suddenly my tweet didn’t seem so harsh!  And I am validated!  I don’t even remember who that boy was in Grade Two but all I have to say to you is :  HA!  I might be “just a girl” but my team won the Stanley Cup! 

 Karma is a slow moving bitch.

Posted by . Categories: go girl, This Charming Man. Tags: , , , , , , , , , . 3 Comments

12

Jun. ’11

A Fearless Vampire Killer

Summer is here and check me out!  Here I am, the end of Grade 6, all youthful exuberance, not a care in the world, a pool in my backyard, popsicles in the freezer, a menstrual period a whole year away.  I had a diary back then, one that I kept hidden in a cigar box but now I have a blog that I post on the internet for everyone to see.  Here are some entries from my 12 year old self (I am sure she would be mortified):

“I stayed up and watched The Fearless Vampire Killers.  I can’t believe that Roman Polanski was married to Sharon Tate and that she is murdered in real life.  I am keeping my window shut anyway because there was a praying mantis in the hallway when I went to bed and it scary.”

“I shaved my legs but it turned out bad. I scraped my shin and it bled like crazy and mom told me I should have used soap but she says she doesn’t need to shave her legs but I think not. There are some hairs that she doesn’t see.”

“I saw Tommy at a drive-in in Cape Cod. I love Roger Daltrey but I think he is too old.  He is with a band called The Who. We also saw LeMans for the first attraction. It had Steve McQueen but I think he looks like Paul Newman. He is old but handsome, like Dick Van Dyke.”

“Fonebone and I picked blackberries all morning in the orchard and my brother made us pick him a bunch which he wolfed down in two bites and then he went golfing.  We told stories on the swing and made up one about a boy named Johnny who had a magic penis (editors note: the rest of that story is so gross that it inspired The Human Centipede). Last year we used to lie down on opposite pillows and hold our feet in the air.  But Fone had a giant plantar wart the size of her heel and blue and busting with blood that I was worried it would come back that I kept my feet on the ground and did all the swinging.  That wart was contagious and everyone got it. My brother dug his out with a pocketknife but Fone and I had to go to the hospital and Magic Tom gave her all the attention because hers was bigger and she had to be on crutches. I think Magic Tom is stupid. He wears makeup in real life.”

“My sister brought a guy home on a motorcycle.  She says he is her friend, not boyfriend but I think he loves her.  He seemed shocked when she said she was going on a trip to Europe.  He writes poetry and brought a magazine that his poem was in, called “New York Chick, Slick.”  Fone is at camp but Teeny and I each got a ride on the motorcycle.  It is a Norton.  He has a bald spot in his afro that I don’t think anyone else would notice unless the wind was blowing.  Teeny liked the ride more than I did. His poem is really good though. I`ve read it a few times and I think it was about someone he was in love with before he became a draft dodger.”

“Teeny told me that she crosses her legs and when she swings her feet she can get an orgasm. I asked her what that was and she says it is because she is a year older and has her period. She does it alot and says if you sneeze, it happens faster.  I tried but I don’t know how to fake a sneeze.”

`We got new jeans for school so we are soaking them in the pool so they fit right.  I like diving in and catching them and putting them on under water just to see how long I can hold my breath. I`m scared to go school, I can’t believe summer is almost over.”

Yes, so that was then and this is now, and I would pretty much say that nubile pre-wench taught me everything I need to know now:   Lock your doors, open your heart, be careful, keep your eyes open, swing your legs, and be aware, be very aware, because these days are fleeting.  And don’t worry about vampires because they don’t like sun.

Posted by . Categories: go girl, Hanging Around. Tags: , , , , , , , , , . 1 Comment

01

Jun. ’11

Non-Sequitur of the Week: I Heart Scotch Eggs, Blockbuster Closes

You learn something new every day.  For a few weeks now I have been palpitating with excitement to go and visit Table 17, one of the new bistro wine bars on Queen Street East in Riverside.  Sometimes I wake up on Saturday or Sunday and I feel I am missing Noah’s boat because I don’t “brunch.”  I don’t do this because I have no one to go with and I can’t do this kind of activity alone because it only takes me two seconds to read a newspaper courtesy of my Grade 6 teacher who decided to teach a select few *gifted* students how to “speed read” which was all the rage in the 1970s.  Stupid idea, and the precursor to all the information overload, overstimulation of the modern world.  Yes, Mrs. Drury, I am so gifted, I always have ants in my pants, fidgety fingers, and I confuse right from left.   If I read slow, I would eat slow.  If I ate slow, I would poop slow.  If I pooped slow, I would read more.  So yeah, reading fast has not done me any favours, thank you very much, Mrs. Drury.   Anyway, brunch in a trendy Toronto bistro/wine bar is for the elite few who have people props or are able contain themselves with reading material for 45 minutes or longer.   Somehow on Sunday, I managed to wrangle a slow moving posse together and by the time we arrived, we were so starving (and cranky) we would have eaten each other (except one of us was on her lady time).  I got a free Mimosa for checking into Foursquare for the first time in weeks. I am weening myself off social media because I think it is causing my insomnia;  Facebook, you are still my wife, and Twitter, you are my mistress 4evah, #loveyoubaby.

I ordered something called a “Scotch Egg,” not knowing what it was, nor caring at that point.  It had to be good because cheese and charcuterie came with it.  And I was right!  It turns out a Scotch Egg is a hardboiled egg, peeled, then coated with sausage meat SOMEHOW!  It is magical!  Then another coating of breadcrumbs and deep fried.  Holy Oprah:  I have found my new food obsession.  I will try this at home and report back.  In the meantime, I will bring a really thick book to Table 17 and go again soon.

And finally, my local Blockbuster is closing its doors.  Super sad!  I still don’t get “watching the computer FOR FREE” with these all these tease sites that bung the computer up then make me you pause for 20 minutes.  I AM TRAINED FOR SPEED!  I CANNOT POSSIBLY WAIT AROUND FOR THINGS TO RE-LOAD!   And that Netflix is probably owned by the Taliban, don’t kid yourself.  I loved my Blockbuster and the funny dudes that worked there and their extreme knowledge in all things Will Farrell.  I will miss it terribly.  Right now they are selling off all their stock and I got “Inglourious Basterds” which I watched last night.  Even during those cringing head-scalping scenes, all I could think of was that Scotch Egg, and I probably need a better kitchen knife.  And a deep fryer.

Posted by . Categories: Eat & Drink. Tags: , , , , . 1 Comment

27

May. ’11

O-mnipotent in Pink

Yesterday I raced through traffic, screamed over speed bumps, charged through stop signs to get home in time to watch the season finale of Oprah.  My sister always tells me that she comes on Channel 1,027,382 at other times of the day but I don’t know how to work the Rogers remote and there is something about the 4:00 Oprah Hour that is almost sacred.    When my kids were babies, the Oprah Show was their feeding hour, a half an hour on each boob. Long after they were weened, I’d lactate at 4 whether I was watching Oprah or not.  Zing!  That is the sensation that the let-down of lactation makes, it’s Oprah o’clock!  Otherwise now known as cocktail hour.  Double zing!

Anyway, yesterday, Lorraine came over as she by divine intervention has the week off and is able to watch the final 3 episodes.  We had champagne and shared a box of Kleenex.  “I thought you hated Oprah,”  said my daughter.  I have been known to bust Miss O’s balls on a few occasions.  She is only human after all.  The whole James Frey scandal made me crazy.  “His memoir is a big lie!” she said.  I wrote her a scathing letter years ago:  All memoirs are “lies.”  Do you think Jeannette Wells didn’t take a few liberties when writing “The Glass Castle” since she would have to remember events and dialogue of when she was a toddler?  I think she ruined James Frey’s life in the worst possible way in that she made him famous, then took it all away by humiliating him.  I boycotted her show for a year after that.  See you next Tuesday, Oprah!  But I eventually got over it.  I’m not sure her recent two part interview with him was redemption but it was better than leaving him to rot in obscurity.  She has the power.

When she interviews people, she interrupts by finishing their sentences in order to move on to the next topic.  This is because she is one of those know-it-alls that you knew when you were in school.  You could just tell she was one of those kids who, 20 seconds before the bell, would put up her fucking hand and ask Teacher a question that would take 5 minutes to answer because she keep the questions going while everyone else was going squirrelly.

And I am suspicious of excessive amounts of generosity.  There was a woman at my gym who would do the most over the top things on other people’s birthday.  She once walked into a full spinning class with a lit birthday cake for someone she hardly knew.  Everything was always done in front of an audience.  All this “giving” this and that, is it more about achieving notoriety?  Look at me!   Then look under your chair, there’s a chicken pot pie!  A pair of Uggs! A Volkswagen Beetle!  A school in Africa!  Don’t get me wrong, she’s done great acts of philanthropy but she looooooves the accolades. 

Why is she the only one who appears on the cover of “O” Magazine?  Why doesn’t she call it “Eg-O” Magazine?

And if she is all about truth, why is maintaining the lifestyle lies of the certain couch-jumping, airplane-flying Scientologists that appear regularly on her show?  Is she one of them? 

Or is she the second coming of Jesus?  WWJD with a wagon load of lard?  Doubts he would be parading it on a tv soundstage wearing high-waisted Calvin Klein jeans.  He’d  probably fry lentils in it and serve them to the lepers in the cave colony.  Jesus wins.

So she’s not the second coming but she is a force, that’s for sure.  The finale was perfection, down to the pink dress which by the way was designed by L’Wren Scott.  It went over like a sermon that included the things she learned from the guests she had on her show.  And no, my child, I don’t hate her.  I’m only critical because skepticism is my nature and blogging about it is my game.  And isn’t that what Oprah wants us to do?  Be our best selves and find our forum to spread our energy around.  Yo, I listened and learned.  So from now on,when 4 o’clocks zings by, there’s going to a big void!   God knows I won’t be watching OWN because it is on those baffling upper channels I don’t know how to find to save my life.   I’m going to miss you, Oprah!

Posted by . Categories: go girl. Tags: , , , , , . Leave a comment

23

May. ’11

Apocalypse Raincheck

 

It’s the May 24 (Vic- CHORE-ia Day) weekend here in Canada, also known as Rapture according to some folks, obviously hungry for a diversion.  Saturday the world was supposed to end, but it didn’t.  Surprise. I spent the day outside because it was nice out for once and everyone else had mowed their lawn.  So I cut my grass for the first time this year using my broken gas-powered lawn mower.  There were big puffs of blue smoke coming out of the motor, but I didn’t care, I inhaled deeply and carried on.  The end is nigh and I am high!!!   Then I went to Canadian Tire and got some potting soil and annuals to plant in all my flower vessels.  I had to dump the old earth out first though so I picked up one of the pots and underneath there was a giant earthworm the size of boa constrictor writhing around like a sexy beast on the prowl.  It had eyes and looked up at me and smiled.  I screamed and dropped the pot and ran in the house.  I hate snakes!  Didn’t Jesus and Jim Morrison both poetically see a snake as an omen before they both died tragically, one as a martyr and the other as a drunken pig?   I know it was a worm, but still.  Freddy came out, and picked it up and threw it into the back of the garden and I finished planting.  I’m not much of a gardener but it looks pretty good.  Each planter has a thrill, a fill, and a spill, meaning something popping out high in the center, and something filling in the rest , and then something spilling out the sides.  In the days of yore, we would just plant a bunch of crappy marigolds in an old barrel and be done with it but now everyone is Martha Stewart.  I took pride in my finished product and went inside to wash my hands and reward myself with clean fingers.

But the chores didn’t end there.  When I got inside, Righteous Teenage Daughter had ripped apart my office/pantry/laundry room and filled a couple garbage bags and boxes  with junk .  “I feel like I am on episode of Hoarders and I am saving the day!”  She was delirious with glee.  “Here!” she barked, “Start hauling these outside!”  So we threw out bags of half eaten tapanades, Rubbermaid containers with missing lids, papers and more paper, including bank statements (yes, identity thieves:  Take mine, please!  You can be a slightly neurotic single lady of a certain age whose credit card doesn’t work in a parking meter, I’ll just go and join the circus instead.  Good times.).  Anyway, we filled, hauled, and dumped, and I have to say it was the best fun ever.  And before we knew it, the Rapture time came and went and we were still in tact.  Same old, same old.  I’m not sure if the Faux-pocalypse taught us to LIVE LIFE TO THE FULLEST  because that level of existential awareness would get tedious pretty quickly.  You can only eat so many bacon bombs and bungee jump so many times before you prolapse.  But maybe just appreciate what you have, remind yourself that unopened mail holds no power, delight in the surprises like smiling worms, and if you can’t find the lid to something, for God’s sakes, throw out the container!  And life should have the occasional thrill, a bunch of fill (please no marigolds), and some spill.  And with that, I leave you Blondie: 

Posted by . Categories: go girl, Handy Hints. Tags: , , , , , , , , . 1 Comment

18

May. ’11

Keep Safe, Carry On

“The first rule of Cheat Club is wear a condom. I’m looking at you, Arnold.”

 Bitchwalla via Twitter

 
I’m not even going to bother judging this whole Arnold Schwarzenegger secret lovechild “scandal.”  It’s a little too late now.  But I will look at it as a cautionary tale.  When you are a married man, who thinks to have condoms in your back pocket when your wife probably has some hormone pumping patch or ring taking care of the situation?  Your mistress isn’t on the pill because she says it makes her fat and besides, her natural cycle of ovulation fruitiness makes her more desirable than your spent old cranky wife.  She may have a condom or two in her goodie drawer but you are not in her bed, you are in the back of the Escalade.  So a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do:  Pull out.  But who remembers to do that?  And so a baby is born some 9 months later and that is that.  The 10 year secret is the sad part and the kid will have to live with that.  I think you are only sick as your secrets and secrets cause cancer (Don’t worry, JHo, I will whisper the word “cancer” when I read this out to my therapy group).
 
Every once in a Haley’s Comet, a dude will ask me:  “Do you have a condom?”  To which I will reply:  “No, do you have a tampon?  Because I need one right now!”  Nip that in the bud!  Why should I provide the covering for a man’s junk?  Do you know how much I have spent on my own birth control in my lifetime?  Okay, not that much, I still fit into that diaphragm from high school (JOKES, please, I threw that out a long time ago #notreally).  Still, I did my due diligence, taking the pill which made me a lunatic, then going off it that made me pregnant and fat.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  Now that I am a single lady, birth control is a dry spell. I am a LOCA (lady of a certain age) but don’t kid yourself, I could still have a rotten egg baby.  Which is something I fear more than a hairy scrotum.  I don’t need another mouth to feed from the strained outlet of a stained nursing bra.  Yuck!  Now my kids are the perfect age that they still need me to sign their report cards but they can make their own Ramen noodles. 
 
Anyway, now that my mojo is back, I am rethinking my “Field of Dreams” strategy.  If you build it he will come:  If you’re packing, he will come quicker.  So I decided to actually get some condoms to have on hand (just in case).  So off to the drugstore I went.  Oddly enough, my Shoppers Drugmart has them situated in between the canes and the non-prescription reading glasses.  There a million kinds of condoms to choose from:  Ribbed, thin, “large” (haha), fire and ice, flavoured, et cetera.  Luckily, there was a young man also parusing the the shelves.  So I struck up a conversation.  He looked harmless enough.
 
Me:  Do you have a favourite kind?
He:   Wulllll, these kind here I usually get…(He grabs the back box with what looks like a gun that says “LARGE” on it)
Me:  (pointing to a Tiffany Blue box with “Ladies Choice” on them) Really?  But these have sensational lubricant on them.  And they are thin!
He:  Yeah, wull…my girlfriend likes those…Yeah, like, she says they’re the Cadillac of condoms..
Me:  Well, why don’t you get them, then?
He:  Cuz I’m a Ferrari!!! LOL!! (snort)
 
I’m fairly certain he didn’t actually have a girlfirend and if he did, she’d sooner have intimate relations with a tailpipe.  And I did choose the Tiffany blue box of 12.  I put 2 in purse, 2 in my glove compartment, and the rest in my goodie drawer.  Because I am a lady.
 
 
Posted by . Categories: LOCAs gone wild. Tags: , , , , . 1 Comment

12

May. ’11

Wishing and Hoping and D.I.Y.

“You can have your cake and eat it too by farting the candles out”   FilthyRichmond on Twitter
 
Yesterday was my birthday (yay, me) and my brother sent me some photos of birthdays past.  Here I am at age 7, blowing out the candles of my cake, making some kind of wish.  I bet it was for a puppy.  I did get one a couple of years later but he ran away and got hit by a car (sad!!!!)  I still want a puppy but now I want one with a tool belt and not with the bone in his mouth, if you know what I mean.  Seriously, I currently have some blue chores around the house:  my washing machine doesn’t spin, my dryer doesn’t heat, there’s still a hole in my kitchen ceiling from that leak a few posts ago, and a crack in the door on the third floor.  THERE IS ALWAYS SOMETHING!!!  When I look at that photo of myself at age 7, I want to tell that little girl to not bother wishing for anything because sometimes when you get what you think you want, it doesn’t really know how to use a power drill at all.  If you know what I mean.
 
One of my birthday traditions since childhood has involved a bucket of KFC.  But as you know if you follow the blog, The Righteous Teenage Daughter, has made us seek out happy farm animals for our unapologetic carnivorous ways.  So I stick to the one butchershop I stumbled upon in January, The Friendly Butcher on Danforth.   They had me at wild boar.  So instead of my usual birthday bucket of the Colonel’s mutant chicken, I decided to take the concept of the “Double Down” and recreate it in a more civilized manner.  Here is what I did, step by step:
 
1. Flattened out 3 boneless chicken breasts (they are Mennonite, by the way, so they might not be happy but they are virtuous)
2. Smothered them in plain Greek-style yogurt
3. Rolled them in cornflake crumbs with coarse sea salt and some Cajun rub
4. Baked in oven at 350 for about 40 minutes
5. Lay out 6 wild boar bacon strips in George Forman grill and let it sizzle until the dog went into a frenzy
6. Put two bacon strips on each breast and drizzed with chipotle aioli and folded over like a sandwich-ish
 
It was messier than the KFC version but way better tasting.  As far as I’m concerned, I would put wild boar bacon on my birthday cake if I had one.  So I didn’t make yet another futile wish this year.  I find just taking matters into your own hands far more effective.  If you know what I mean.
 
 
 
Posted by . Categories: Eat & Drink, go girl. Tags: , , , . Leave a comment

06

May. ’11

Never Mind The Bollocks, It’s Mother’s Day

“If your dog has weird unsightly nipples, it’s OK to throw 3 or 4 little bras on it.”   @robdelaney via Twitter
 
This is a touching little anecdote about my dog, Betty, which I think is perfect for Mother’s Day.   By the way, gentle reminder:  It’s this coming Sunday, children, so go and empty piggy banks and get ye to a flower shoppe and the chicken place.   To preface the story, Betty is our beloved pet who we call our fallen angel because she has little white tufts of fur on her back like wings that were ripped off by the body guards in Heaven.  For sure they kicked her out for urinating on the clouds and leaving little turd nuggets behind the harps and being just a general all around asshole to the other dog angels.  Here on our earthly patch of foursquare called “Chez Betty,” we adore and obsess over her.  My kids and I take turns taking her out for walks and we all hate it.  In the house she is a sweet, loving, little snuggle bunny but as soon as she walks out the door, she becomes a demonic frothing-at-the-mouth maniac.  She pulls on her leash, eats garbage, chases cats and squirrels, and barks furiously at skateboarders.  When she encounters another dog, she dive bombs for its anus, and before she barely takes a sniff, she passes judgment.  Her hackles go up, she snarls, and then pounces.  And we have to drag her away.  I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE THINKING:  GET THIS DOG TRAINED!  *sigh* This beast doesn’t need a dog whisperer, she needs a team of Navy Seals to whip her into civility.  Anyway I am beginning to think we are a family of enablers who secretly enjoy the attention she brings on us.
 
Yesterday afternoon I was walking her and we just turned around the corner of Starbucks to head up the street I could see a big giant white shepherd-style dog strolling casually towards us with her owner.  I could call it a female from that far away because she had six dangling giant pink nipples swaying  from her belly.  The dog was also off leash so this potential encounter could go anywhere.  I was excited as we approached each other.  Betty on the other hand was pretending to ignore her by sniffing some phantom chicken wing on the sidewalk.  Classic Betty, when the dog is bigger than her (most of them are) she often waits for them to pass before she attacks.  But this dog was cool as a cucumber and her owner, a cowboy, was equally cavalier.   When we got close, he nodded his head at me and tapped his hat and said “Howdy.”   His dog stopped right in front of Betty.  Betty looked up and hesitated.  Gingerly she walked up to the dog and who remained still, she seemed to be smiling.  Betty didn’t growl at her, instead she sniffed one of her dangleberry titlets with her tail wagging in circles like a helicopter!  The mother dog stood patiently as Betty licked one of  her titsicles.  I was frozen with amazement.  Maybe all Betty needs is her mommy to keep her in line!  I looked up at the Cowboy, who winked at me and said, “You got a nice set, too.”
 
Best Mother’s Day present ever.
Posted by . Categories: go girl, Hanging Around. Tags: . 1 Comment

04

May. ’11

The Witch is Dead, The Douche Abides

“I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” — Martin Luther King, Jr.

My first thoughts when this appeared on my Facebook page:  What a Buddhist buzzkill! Osama bin Laden had it coming!  This is the best day ever!  I can’t stop watching CNN!  I want more pictures!  I want to see the dead body!  I want to see him dumped in the ocean!  I want a Navy Seal for my birthday!

And then I thought:  Settle down.  Let’s not forget the images we saw from the Middle East the day of September 11, 2001.  The crowds rejoicing waving doo-rags looked pretty much the same as the ones at the White House on Sunday night.  Furthermore, President Obama is being praised for this as the best thing he’s ever done in office so far.  He had a terrorist killed and took down some human collateral along for the ride.  It’s not a video game, it’s real, and there will be consequences so don’t get too smug, my American friends.  I still want a Navy Seal, though, my birthday is next week.  Make it happen, Obama, since you’re on a roll.

AND SPEAKING OF SMUG, here in Canada, we woke up to the same old, same old.  Not only did Stephen Harper win, the Conservative party took a majority.  Boo, yuck, and UGH (Under Government Hostage).  Do you know how long it took me to learn how to spell “Ignatieff?”  Do you know that women talk about politicans the same way men talk about women in general?  Here is the converation I had in the whirlpool at the gym today:

Me (always forthcoming, I’ve had Botox!):  I voted Liberal but the NDP won in my Beach riding.

Lady with fake boobs:  I’m in the Beach, too.  I voted NDP because I really liked Layton in Quebec.

Me (I hate Layton but that’s a whole other post and I keep it to myself):   I love Ignatieff (pronounce: Ig- NA ‘(pause) tiefffff)

LWFB:  Really?  You’re probably the only person I’ve ever met who likes him.

Me:  It’s those dirty ads the Conservatives put out!  They make him look sinister with his crazy eyebrows, wackadoodle snaggle teeth, and stroke mouth.  In that commercial where he says: “I won’t take another GST hike off the table,”  that was edited out of context. He was probably just telling a joke about a priest and a rabbi in a bar.  He reminds me of John Cassavetes, I’d totally do him.  And he’s smart.  Stephen Harper has that dumbo look and a smug smile I just want to wipe off with my fist.

LWFB:  Oh!   Well, I just would have voted for anybody but Stephen Harper.  He’s a tyrant.  It’s going to be just awful.

Snap, sister!  And he needs to trim his nostril hairs.  But we Canadians have been known to be compliant, the cards will fall where they may.  Until then, Iggy:  Call me!

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